


An Englishman's Home is a Clean Castle

by Liadt



Category: Adam Adamant Lives!
Genre: Gen, Teamwork
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-10
Updated: 2016-03-10
Packaged: 2018-05-24 21:32:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6167488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liadt/pseuds/Liadt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before he dies, Adam has one last request...</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Englishman's Home is a Clean Castle

“Do you have any last requests, Mr Adamant?” asked Mr Congdon, a stocky man, with an impressive moustache. He was standing in front of the fireplace in Adam’s flat. Congdon ran a restaurant on a barge, where the waiters dressed as pirates. Adam had uncovered that the piratical activities on the ship went deeper than staff wearing fancy dress and Congdon wasn’t going to let him make that fact common knowledge. Next to the writing desk, Adam was sat handcuffed to a chair. Georgie and Simms were also handcuffed and perched glumly together on the sofa. Two heavyset men, in pirate costumes, wielding cutlasses, hovered by the drawing room’s double doors. 

“Yes, I do have one request. Before I die, I find it most desirable to have the drawing room returned its original state,” said Adam.

“You want the room tidied?” said Congdon, incredulously and stopped smoothing his moustache. “Wouldn’t you prefer a cigar and a glass of your fine cognac?” He lifted a half-full tumbler off the mantelpiece to illustrate his point.

A smile tugged at Adam’s lips. “You confuse me with my manservant. As a gentleman of the Edwardian era, I simply cannot leave my residence in disarray.”

Congdon did not know if Edwardian gentlemen were particularly fastidious or if Adam was crackers, but in the fight between his henchmen and Adamant the drawing room had been turned upside down. The event of dining had been severely disrupted: food was slowly sliding down the wallpaper to join broken crockery on the floor, furniture had been overturned and carefully displayed knick-knacks had been savagely knocked from the shelves. 

Congdon went back to smoothing his moustache. “I’m afraid you’ll have to put up with the mess. I can’t have you telephoning a “cleaning agency” and have the boys in blue burst in fifteen minutes later to save your skin.”

“I assure you there is no need to call in outside assistance. My man, Simms, is more than capable of dealing with the detritus.” Adam gave a nod towards Simms. 

“Very well, but no funny business or _my man_ will do something that will completely ruin your carpet… and the walls too. Johnson, keep an eye on the servant.” Congdon gestured at one of the heavies to come forward. 

Johnson went up to Simms and unlocked Simms’ handcuffs with a key from his belt. Johnson then followed Simms, as he went to get cleaning products from under the kitchen sink and back into drawing room again.

“How clean do you want the place, sir?” asked Simms, studiously ignoring his shadow with the big, sharp sword.

“Thoroughly, including the windows,” replied Adam.

“Very good, sir,” intoned Simms and set to work on the French windows.

****

Half an hour later, Simms was still busily polishing away. Congdon stifled a yawn. Watching Adam’s manservant clean was strangely hypnotic. Was this a mind trick? On the other hand, was it simply Simms’ overly methodical approach to housework that was causing his eyelids to droop? Adamant had said to him earlier, at the restaurant, what he missed about the past was the leisurely pace of life and how he tried to preserve it in his own corner of England. He had certainly achieved that.

Congdon broke the silence. “Butler, you’ve got until-” He turned and glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “-Seven thirty to finish tidying. I’ve got a plane to catch and diamonds to smuggle.”

Deciding the windows would have to do as they were, Simms fetched a dustpan and brush. Stooping to sweep the floor around Georgie’s feet, he commented, “Every time you visit it adds twenty minutes to my cleaning, miss.”

“Hey! I’m not dirty,” protested Georgie, as she lifted her feet for Simms.

“Fake eyelashes, backs off earrings, tiny glass beads, sweet wrappers, sequins and hair grips drop off you like water falling from a leaky tap. You lose more Kirby grips than a moulting dog loses fur.”

“It’s my new shampoo: it uses the latest technology. What’s a few grips when my tresses are left sleek and smooth with a bounce that’s oh so kissable,” said Georgie, mimicking the shampoo’s advertising jingle.

Simms wasn’t impressed by the rhyme. “What’s wrong with using tongs heated in the coals of a fire, instead of hair grips? My Mother swears by them. I’ve never seen her with a hair out of place.” Simms stood up, left the dustpan on a side table and took a feather duster over to the writing desk.

“Keep away from him,” growled Johnson, blocking Simms’ way and gave him a gentle poke with his sword for added emphasis.

Simms eyes widened slightly, but otherwise he showed no signs of being ruffled. “The thought never crossed my mind,” he said, smoothly. “The desk needs some attention.”

“All right,” said Johnson, stepping back to allow Simms to get on with his job. “That desk is full of junk, if you ask me. If Adamant likes things spick and span why does he keep such tatty old stuff in it and is that a hat pin? My Gran collected those.”

“The contents are not in the best state because they were in this desk in 1902, in my old house. After my previous home was torn down, I found the bureau in a shop full of bygones, where both time and damp had wrought unfavourable changes on the contents,” said Adam.

“They were very sentimental in those days,” added Congdon. “I imagine Mr Adamant can’t bear to part with the contents, no matter how shabby.”

“There is some truth in what you say, Mr Congdon. Careful, Simms, don’t rattle the contents,” said Adam, when Simms knocked over a pot of pens.

****

“You’re going to have to call in a squad of professional cleaners now,” said Georgie, surveying the damage. The windowpanes still shone as brightly as they did fifteen minutes ago, but the rest of the drawing room was in chaos again. This time there was the addition of three bodies on the hearthrug. In a case of reversed fortunes, the two unconscious heavies were handcuffed. Congdon, however, was dead, his heart pierced by what looked like a large hatpin.

“Did you really need to break my vase, Miss Jones?” said Adam, sadly, examining the shards of broken pottery.

“If I hadn’t that pretend pirate would have run you through. Simms broke a plant pot over Johnson’s head. That made a bigger mess: soil everywhere.”

“The vase was fine, French, faience pottery.”

“Never mind, there’s a groovy, new store that’s opened near my flat. Once you get something with-it in here, you’ll feel a whole lot happier. Being surrounded by all this Victorian, funeral clutter is bound to make you feel down in the dumps.”

The corners of Adam’s mouth remained pointing resolutely downwards. 

Deciding Adam was a lost cause to trendy home-ware, Georgie changed the subject. “Wasn’t it fab how Simms passed those hair grips to us without being spotted? I wonder if a bent grip works on all locks.”

“I calculated that, coming from a theatrical background, Simms would be able to pass on something useful to aide us.”

“You must have recalled my reminisces about the performance of _The Kaiser Was My Daughter_ , where Montague Standing shot a deserter from the trenches by pointing two fingers and shouting ‘Bang!’. He made Timothy Henshaw look competent. I spent the rest of the run passing personal props Standing had forgotten surreptitiously to him on stage,” said Simms.

“Yes, it must have been that particular tale of yours,” said Adam.

“It’s a shame I couldn’t have despatched Standing with a hat pin,” said Simms, gazing down at Congdon’s corpse.

“It is not a hat pin, it is a miniature, ceremonial dagger presented to me by the Xrendesh Tribe, in gratitude for freeing them from a diabolical band of slave traders,” Adam informed them.

Simms couldn’t help thinking the Xrendesh had been having him on.

“Are you sure?” asked Georgie. It looked very much like a hatpin to her.

“Quite and I must take my leave of you now to make my report to Sir Richard Foxton, on the true nature of Congdon’s business,” said Adam and made a, typically, swift exit from the flat. 

Georgie started at the lift doors for a few moments. “I bet it is a hat pin and he’s trying to cover up evidence he hasn’t always been so straight-laced.”

“Do you think so, miss?” said Simms, distractedly, as he swept the floor for the second time in an hour.

“No, just idle fancy, I guess,” said Georgie, failing to imagine Adam letting his hair down at the turn of the century. “Do you mind having to tidy up all over again?”

“Not at all. I’m glad to be alive to do it.”

“Mmm,” agreed Georgie. “I know! I’ll help you. It shouldn’t take too long. No point cleaning near the bodies.”

Simms groaned. “Don’t you have an Adamant to chase after?”

“He’s not going anywhere exciting. I met Sir Richard once; he was so un-mod he made Adam look positively mod! Don’t worry, I won’t ruin your best duster,” said Georgie, bouncing into the kitchen.

Simms eyed the hatpin again.


End file.
